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Man-at-Arms
"You shall fight at his Lordship’s command and his whim. You shall be better than you were, for you wield and wear the arms of his Excellency! And you shall die, if that sacrifice be demanded of you, but you die well for the cause of our Lord." Basic (KotG) Whilst knights are the backbone of Bretonnian armies, peasants form the bulk. Some receive no training at all and are simply rounded up and pointed at the enemy. Men-at-Arms are the lucky ones. When they were paraded before their lord, he decided they had the potential to fight back and ordered that they be trained. Still, the training and equipment that Men-at-Arms receive are not very good, and whilst they do receive some pay, it is far less than you might expect for risking your life. Most important, they are given no choice in the matter. As a result, it is not uncommon for Men-at-Arms to seize any chance to desert, and many deserters take up a life of adventure. Main Profile Secondary Profile Skills: Consume Alcohol, Dodge Blow, Gamble, Gossip, Intimidate, Perception Talents: Specialist Weapon Group (Two-handed), Street Fighting, Strike Mighty Blow, Strike to Injure Trappings: Halberd, Light Armour (Leather Jack and Leather Skullcap), Uniform bearing Lord’s Heraldry Career Entries Carcassonne Shepherd, Hunter, Peasant, Vagabond, Woodsman Career Exits Carcassonne Shepherd, Herrimault, Outlaw, Outrider, Veteran, Yeoman Note: Women can only enter this career if they are pretending to be men. Kharmourt’s Blades These elite troops are the personal pride of Baron Larieu of Kharmourt, an adjutant of the Duke of Carcassonne. While other Bretonnian barons might field poorly-trained or under-equipped men-at-arms, his officers train two detachments of greatswordsmen in tabards of black and green – the baron’s colors. Those worthies promoted to sergeants are presented with mail coats, while the two commanding veterans proudly wear their lord’s raven and toad on their breastplates. All of them brandish greatswords and know how to wield them in close ranks, never losing ground due to disorder or injury to one’s fellows. (Many of Sir Larieu’s fellow nobles try and fail to lure away some of his officers, hoping to train their men-at-arms to such magnificent discipline.) Walking Away “I’m tired, Vaorn. Can’t we stop a while and rest? Or at least find some food?” “Shut it, Artor!” Vaorn whispered over his shoulder. “Do ye want to draw his lordship’s hunters or no? We’ll be hanged at best, if ’n we’re caught! Now step where I be once I move…” The drizzle dampened Artor’s leathers and the bog into which he and Vaorn had fled kept soaking over the top of his boots. He kept having to steady himself with his halberd like a staff as they moved through the bog. He hoped he’d not have to use the weapon soon, slimy as it was. Vaorn had always thought for both of them, even when they were kids. He told him they’d been picked to join his lordship’s army, not saying until later which lordship. Artor went along anyway, happy at first for more regular meals and drink than they ever got as stable hands. They got leathers and smart uniforms, and trained to fight with a halberd. His lordship, the knight Sir Jhollas, promised them land to call their own, land they needed to earn by fighting for him. `Course, they didn’t learn they were to reclaim part of cursed Mousillon from the Baron Perryol, until they were marching along the Grismerie. After two months battling against the poxed and press-ganged forces of the baron, Vaorn was the one to whisper “Pox on this. I’m running...” as they gnawed that night’s maggoty biscuit soaked in a cold stew more dog than deer. As always, Artor followed his brother’s lead, which brought them to this cold, fetid bog. Vaorn moved into a patch of reeds, slipped, and splashed into a deep pool, swearing as he fell. He half-rose out of the dark water but lurched forward again before he could fully stand up. The burly man disappeared beneath the surface, the reeds shaking as he fought beneath the fetid water. Artor whispered, “Vaorn?” before the arm clamped onto his left leg, the putrescent black-green flesh only covering two of five fingers and part of the forearm. Maybe life as his lordship’s man-at-arms weren’t so bad as this…